all round, for I possess the gift of foresight in a degree so limited as to be practically nil. As for circumstances – so far from pretending to direct them I am the mere creature of them. So are we all.”
“What has started you upon this train of thought?” she asked suddenly.
“Several things. But I’ll give you an instance of what I was saying just now. This morning I was surprised and surrounded by a gang of Kafirs, all armed to the teeth. Nearly all of them were on the very verge of shying their assegais bang through me, and if Ncanduku – you know him – Nteya’s brother – hadn’t appeared on the scene just in the very nick of time, I should have been a dead man. As it was, we sat down, had an indaba and a friendly smoke, and parted on the best of terms. Now, wasn’t I helplessly, abjectly, the creature of circumstances – first in being molested at all – second in Ncandúku’s lucky arrival?”
“Eustace! And you never told me this!”
“I told Tom – just as he was starting – and he laughed. He didn’t seem to think much of it. To tell the truth, neither did I. Why – what’s the matter, Eanswyth?”
Her face was deathly white. Her eyes, wide open, were dilated with horror; then they filled with tears. The next moment she was sobbing wildly – locked in his close embrace.
“Eanswyth, darling – my darling. What is it? Do not give way so! There is nothing to be alarmed about now – nothing.”
His tones had sunk to a murmur of thrilling tenderness. He was showering kisses upon her lips, her brow, her eyes – upon stray tresses of soft hair which escaped beneath her hat. What had become of their attitude of guarded self-control now? Broken down, swept away at one stroke as the swollen mountain stream sweeps away the frail barricade of timber and stones which thought to dam its course – broken down before the passionate outburst of a strong nature awakened to the knowledge of itself – startled into life by the magic touch, by the full force and fury of a consciousness of real love.
“You are right,” she said at last. “We must go away from here. I cannot bear that you should be exposed to such frightful peril. O Eustace! Why did we ever meet!”
Why, indeed! he thought. And the fierce, wild thrill of exultation which fan through him at the consciousness that her love was his – that for good or for ill she belonged to him – belonged to him absolutely – was dashed by the thought: How was it going to end? His clear-sighted, disciplined nature could not altogether get rid of that consideration. But clear-sighted, disciplined as it was, he could not forego that which constituted the whole joy and sweetness of living. “Sufficient for the day” must be his motto. Let the morrow take care of itself.
“Why did we ever meet?” he echoed. “Ah, does not that precisely exemplify what I was saying just now? Life is full of surprises. Surprise Number 1, when I first found you here at all. Number 2, when I awoke to the fact that you were stealing away my very self. And I soon did awake to that consciousness.”
“You did?”
“I did. And I have been battling hard against it – against myself – against you – and your insidiously enthralling influence ever since.”
His tone had become indescribably sweet and winning. If the power of the man invariably made itself felt by all with whom he was brought into contact in the affairs of everyday life, how much more was it manifested now as he poured the revelation of his long pent-up love – the love of a strong, self-contained nature which had broken bounds at last – into the ears of this woman whom he had subjugated – yes, subjugated, utterly, completely.
And what of her?
It was as though all heaven had opened before her eyes. She stood there tightly clasped in that embrace, drinking in the entrancing tenderness of those tones – hungrily devouring the straight glance of those magnetic eyes, glowing into hers. She had yielded – utterly, completely, for she was not one to do things by halves. Ah, the rapture of it!
But every medal has its obverse side. Like the stab of a sword it came home to Eanswyth. This wonderful, enthralling, beautiful love which had thrown a mystic glamour as of a radiant Paradise upon her life, had come just a trifle too late.
“O Eustace,” she cried, tearing herself away from him, and yet keeping his hands clenched tightly in hers as though she would hold him at arm’s length but could not. “O Eustace! my darling! How is it going to end? How?”
The very thought which had passed unspoken through his own mind.
“Dearest, think only of the present. For the future – who knows! Did we not agree just now – life is full of surprises?”
“Au!”
Both started. Eanswyth could not repress a little scream, while even Eustace realised that he was taken at a disadvantage, as he turned to confront the owner of the deep bass voice which had fired off the above ejaculation.
It proceeded from a tall, athletic Kafir, who, barely ten yards off, stood calmly surveying the pair. His grim and massive countenance was wreathed into an amused smile. His nearly naked body was anointed with the usual red ochre, and round the upper part of his left arm he wore a splendid ivory ring. He carried a heavy knob-kerrie and several assegais, one of which he was twisting about in easy, listless fashion in his right hand.
At sight of this extremely unwelcome, not to say formidable, apparition, Eustace’s hand instinctively and with a quick movement sought the back of his hip – a movement which a Western man would thoroughly have understood. But he withdrew it – empty. For his eye, familiar with every change of the native countenance, noted that the expression of this man’s face was good-humoured rather than aggressive. And withal it seemed partly familiar to him.
“Who are you – and what do you want?” he said shortly. Then as his glance fell upon a bandage wrapped round the barbarian’s shoulder: “Ah. I know you – Hlangani.”
“Keep your ‘little gun’ in your pocket, Ixeshane,” said the Kafir, speaking in a tone of good-humoured banter. “I am not the man to be shot at twice. Besides, I am not your enemy. If I were, I could have killed you many times over already, before you saw me; could have killed you both, you and the Inkosikazi.”
This was self-evident. Eustace, recognising it, felt rather small. He to be taken thus at a disadvantage, he, who had constituted himself Eanswyth’s special protector against this very man! Yes. He felt decidedly small, but he was not going to show it.
“You speak the truth, Hlangani,” he answered calmly. “You are not my enemy. No man of the race of Xosa is. But why do you come here? There is bad blood between you and the owner of this place. Surely the land is wide enough for both. Why should your pathways cross?”
“Ha! You say truly, Ixeshane. There is blood between me and the man of whom you speak. Blood – the blood of a chief of the House of Gcaléka. Ha!”
The eyes of the savage glared, and his countenance underwent a transformation almost magical in its suddenness. The smiling, good-humoured expression gave way to one of deadly hate, of a ruthless ferocity that was almost appalling to contemplate. So effective was it upon Eustace that carelessly, and as if by accident, he interposed his body between Eanswyth and the speaker, and though he made no movement, his every sense was on the alert. He was ready to draw his revolver with lightning-like rapidity at the first aggressive indication. But no such indication was manifested.
“No. You have no enemies among our people – neither you nor the Inkosikazi”
